My honor is my loyalty
by trigger14
Summary: HBP, DHcompatible. Postwar. Stray Death Eaters, despite Voldemort's death, continue opposing the New World Order, bringing their revenge. Enter the fight for purity of Hjort Schadel, the Malfoys and others. OCNM, LMNM, no slash, dark fic, graph violence


Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter or anything related.

Rating: M. Will be more graphical depiction of violence and sex.

Pairings: OC\NM, LM\NM, OC\BL (in flashback)

A\N: Story is given through an OC POV. HBP, DH compatible, post-war. This fic is about politics and social issues, mostly, no matter how strange it sounds. Some of the Death Eaters have survived the events of the 7th Book - and the story 's about... Resistance. It is not only the Light side that establishes it, not only the good guys sit underground, bravely fighting for what's right. This is a story about those who had lost war and hope, their leader dead and their ideals destroyed. About unnameless people behind masks, statits, that were never given the chance to speak out.

A\N2: I'm Russian, so please be mild in grammar critics)))

"There's one thing we should not forget, for soon this knowledge will be considered…", the speaker let out a short, raspy laugh, more of a bark. "Dark Arts, eh? So, what was I saying? By adding clear water to dirt won't make the dirt any cleaner… But a tiny speck of dirt will make water the same as it is. Mud."

The man went silent. Danny Worthorp watched as the speaker twirled an almost empty bottle of Firewhiskey between his pale, twig-like fingers, the glass shooting beams of light all over the little, cluttered living room, dimly lit by solitary candles; reflected from its translucent bronze surface. Then, as if catching Danny's imploring gaze, the intruder smiled, put the bottle on the sticky tablecloth so the label faced Worthorp:

"Good ol' Bransbie's Firewhiskey, isn't it? Brewed in unfaltering traditions, since, ahem 1633. You've got some taste, something I've been expecting, _counselor_," the last word distorted in a sardonic hiss. Worthorp's unwanted guest mockingly saluted with the firewhiskey, finally emptying the last remnants of the drink in his throat. "Cheers."

Worthorp didn't reply or move, as if being glued to the spot. His left hand clenched tightly to the chair's arm, nails digging deep into the soft pinewood. The simple presence of the man sent shivers and goosebumps down his spine. He was nearly emanating cold.

"But why aren't you happy, Worthorp? Where's the merry glint in your eye? The whole damn country's drunk to shit celebrating, for nearly a week, and you here sit sober like some human memorial to healthy life! Aren't you a bit happy? Getting rid of… trouble?"

Danny finally managed to open his mouth, licked his dry lips, for the silence seemed to irritate the invader:

"You're accusing me, Hjort? After all…" he stumbled. "I, I… I was never _meant_ to be playing s-s…"

"Suicide? But oh yes, no," cut in the one called Hjort. "Nobody was expecting that kind of devotion from a mere Ministry worker. Surely, nobody. I was just getting to the point, trying to build a friendly warm chat…"

With these words, Hjort rummaged through the contents of his pockets and with a little, content smile extracted Danny's wand, watching as his face turn blank and stiff with horror. Worthorp gulped, feeling the sweat drops trickling between his shoulder blades - so the filthy bastard finally drew up his trump cards. The wizard's mind raced in a futile attempt to understand how this could ever happen.

"I suspect this is yours, counselor?" drawled Hjort, his Scandinavian accent more pronounced, stroking the slightly shimmering red dark wood with the very tips of his fingers, stroking it in the most caring way, taunting the jealous strings in Worthorp's heart.

"But so nice of you to participate in this madness of self-security, to leave your magic by the bedside table. This is the true triumph of gh," Hjort almost choked. "Good over Evil. I really do appreciate such mindless relaxation."

When Hjort rose from the violet depths of a plushy armchair, Worthorp suppressed a squeak of terror and protest. The man had become quite intimidating as with a cruel, ominous determination he stalked to Danny's side and hunched over him, the wand's working end pressed hard to Worthorp's belly. For a few seconds their eyes met – an indifferent, studying glare of a tired entomologist, ready for some insect dissection and a terrified, befogged gaze of his victim, struggling in the attempt to recollect his guts and wits.

Hjort's left cheek was torn open. Blood had just stopped oozing out, and streaks of stained blood marred the otherwise waxy white skin, the contrast turning it into a spectacular sickening shade usually accompanying severe blood loss. In the hushed yellowish light Worthorp got a good view on Hjort's robes, which were glistening with a thick crust of darkened blood. Danny couldn't make out any particular wounds, or holes in the dirty cloth draping the Death Eater's wide, but angular, frame, but there was no proof that Hjort was intact. Probably he was, probably he was just setting up this fearsome façade to deceive Worthorp, to mask his weakness. Some weakness that could be exploited, if only Danny could just wait...

"But… But my wand."

Hjort sneered at his stupidity.

"Your WAND. It's all about it, isn't it? This dumb head of yours doesn't comprehend the extents of caused damage, does it?" the Death Eater's voice transformed eventually to a suffocated yelp, the suppressed anger boiling inside him. "When were being murdered like cornered beasts, sacrificing our lives – and doing the _actual__wand_work – when we were fighting and dying, you sat by the warm fireplace, making plans on how to prove loyalty to the winner. Very smart of you. I feel that, after all, I have every right no only to use this piece of junk, but to shove it all the way down your pathetic shriveled ass."

Morphing the smile into a pained grin full of unnervingly sharp, inhuman teeth, Hjort leaned closer to Danny, inhaling with effort, almost rubbing his bloodstained cheek against the other wizard's face. The Death Eater's voice dropped to a sinister, intimate whisper, his cold, unpleas:

"You know, when scum and such, these _abominations_ of living creatures, are clinging to your legs, to your spine, stabbing, clawing, teething at you and at the same time curses are flying over your head, and your friend is gurgling, falling to your feet with an arrow impaled through his neck, trying to pull it out – when so many things are happening around you, things that threaten your life and sanity – it's, it's… quite hard to keep one's wand safe, especially when you're forced to transform. But I reckon you know nothing about such difficulties."

Hjort was desperately trying to catch a glimpse of respect in Worthorp's eyes, but found only resentment and disgust. The smile fading, he backed away a little.

"Not to mention the… fact that He died. Oh well, I guess you'll share the same fate. Though, of course, you are incomparable."

Worthorp's eyes widened in shock, panic flashed across his face.

"No!"

The former Death Eater laughed, tilted his head, and dragged the wand's end to a place where Danny's navel must have been.

"You shouldn't do this, Hjort, you shouldn't… Anyway, what's the point, we… you lost. The war is over. He is DEAD. Accept it."

"Ah. So you're telling me – dump 20 years in a trashbin, admit that you were completely fucked up, live with it. May I ask you – in what state?"

Breathing heavily, Worthorp remained silent, considering it to be wise not to break Hjort's outburst of raged sarcasm.

"Right. You don't have an answer, Daniel. Good for you, the question was rhetorical. On the other hand, the answer is simple – there's no place for us, or, better say…" Hjort's upper lip curled in a canine grimace. "_Me_, since you proved yourself a slimy collaborator."

Delighted by the effect made by his words, by Worthorp's contorted features, the Death Eater straightened before the cowering man and stepped away from him, allowing his shadow to overtake Danny. The cherry wand was still in sight, but Hjort lowered his hand and walked towards the opposite wall of the living room, observing the photographs hung over pastel floristic wallpaper.

"I've been to Nurmengard… Can't say it was an enjoyable stay, even without your Brtitish Dementor-things. Ahh, there it is!" Hjort snatched a photo from the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the neat row of family pictures and spun back towards the petrified Worthorp, nearly shoving the frame in his face. The last sunk deeper in his chair, now openly gasping for air.

"She is lovely, oh yes she is. Not much resemblance to you, lucky girl, I'd say." Hjort's fingernail tapped on the glass.

"Don't you…" Worthorp managed to add malice and threat to his voice as he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Me? Never, never…" the Death Eater put the photo on the table, glanced sideways at an image of a twelve-year old girl snogging a rather furry cat and smiling in the camera, then, with a free hand, never loosing grip on the wand, took of the hood and ran his fingers through short blond hair in a most nonchalant way. " I kill only Mudblood offsprings, you know. But in Hogwarts these days… Is she in Hogwarts? Answer!"

"Y-yes…" dread, rising from the stomach and burning like vomit, filled every cell of Worthorp's numb body. Hanna, his treasure… He could only imagine for which foul purposes the Death Eater had begun such a strange inquiry. And he didn't want to thinl amot it. It made him sick and utterly helpless.

"House?"

"R-r… Ravenclaw."

"A smart young lady, well, how sweet…" Hjort's white, washed-out eyes narrowed to sadistically gleaming slits. "Pureblood. In Hogwarts. Haven't you mused on how hard her life would be the next year?"

Worthorp finally broke, as he hid his face in his hands, whimpering and trembling as if in physical pain.

"Please, don't touch her, don't harm her, I… I'll do anything, I'll live down to…"

The injured, hemorrhaging man which towered over him, broke into a constrained laugh. The last words of his captive were genuinely… amusing.

"I? No, Daniel, it will be not me, how would touch her. It would be entirely your fault. If you proved yourself somewhat loyal, let this act of mercy towards your person not fog your view of truth… Being pureblood, let alone in the Mudblood breeding ground this school is – is a crime. Something that won't be forgiven under any circumstances. Shadows of "Darkness" will hang over your family and daughter, and she – well, they will try to "cure" her from her blood, her status, her pride. Personally, despite how much I regret it, I think you deserve it all. Maybe if you fought for our ideals a bit more hard, she wouldn't have been forced into mixing with house-elves…"

Hjort cackled.

"Watcha looking at me like that, counselor? No doubt that tolerance and fear would lead to such atrocities, just imagine them… feasting on your daughter's young, fresh body. All in the name of Equality, Stability, Light."

The Death Eater leaned on the table, studying Worthorp close as he came to understand Hjort's words, to fully GET IT. Such a weak, useless man writhed before him.

"But I can spare you of your grief, Worthorp."

"What do you," while saying the words, the counselor to Head of Network in a moment of a crystal clear revelation understood what Hjort implied. "No! No, I could do… I can give you money, shelter, anything – I have ways to keep you, at least heal you…"

Hjort wiped blood from his face with a strangely bemused expression, as if for the first time realizing that he had been hurt. He licked blood off his fingers and smiled, glaring at Worthorp.

"Heal me… Never been good at healing, really. Are you trying to lure me into something, Daniel? You should think I've gone mad to trust you, to accept your so-called "help". I can get the money I need by force – being in debt to a rat like you doesn't fascinate me," the blond Death Eater pondered over the offering for a second, a frown on his face. "Certainly no."

A muscle jerked in his jaw, as he suddenly hurled back, the stolen wand slashing air:

"_Sectumsempra!"_

Silence was torn by Worthorp's high-pitched, shrill shriek when a deep, wide cut in his belly pumped out blood and guts.

"Returning to your prior statement. He is NOT dead. He won't be dead until we stop fighting, until the last Death Eater dies, until the last pureblood betrays his blood. The war itself won't be end until our ideas live in minds and bodies of true wizards. Is that clear?" the Death Eater kept his wand aimed at the disemboweled man, who wept and moaned in pain as he tried to stay in the chair, not to fall to the ground, trying to stuff his intestines back where they belonged.

"Please, please do h-have mercy!" the counselor's voice cracked with unbearable pain. He looked at the opposite wall, emerged into dusk, at the beloved faces which now twitched with distaste and fear.

Slowly, obviously finding pleasure in the man's torture, Hjort strode to his side, blocking out the candlelight.

"Mercy? Mercy to whom? You're no longer a pureblood, a _kampfgefahrte_… The Dark Lord never taught us to be merciful to dirt," Hjort gazed at Danny's convulsively clenched fingers holding the bloody guts, though a strand of them still slipped on the floor.

"You are… a disgrace to your daughter." the Death Eater venomously spat in Worthorp's face, grinned at the humiliation spasm that rippled the counselor's features.

"But you are right. I AM losing time with you when all I wanted was a wand and some money…"

Worthorp suddenly laughed. It was an odd, unsettling laugh of a dying man, a laugh with blood spurting from his mouth. Hjort leaned closer, intrigued with such behavior. Danny's eyes have become dull, but he still was able to talk.

"You're wh-what…hhhkk… in some bl..bloody grrr-resistance?"

"Maybe… Maybe… But that's not a thing to be laughed at. Not in your condition when unable to resist to anything."

The wand, icy and sharp, pressed to Worthorp's flabby neck.

"_Sectumsempa._"

Hjort wasn't actually fond of the wand. While sitting in a dark, unkept, typically bachelor's kitchen in Worthorp's house and chewing up some cold, hard sandwiches surely made quite a while ago, he thought that it didn't channel his magic all that good – he needed to repeat the curse twice until successfully slitting the git's throat covered by too much fat.

He would need a better wand to wreak havoc. To fight of the dogs, the Aurors. No question about that. He would need a damn powerful wand to kill them all.

"One," thought Hjort. "By one."


End file.
